Do you remember how it went
the song you sang back when we spent
our time waiting for the world to
rhyme? Your back set straight you bid me
lie my heavily creased brow a
while into your lap for I seemed
bent on being upset about some
petty thing you said or did. I
can’t recall another time I
heard a similar lullaby
wring out the shame out of my gut.
Your head bent low you said to me –
I can’t remember what you said,
to be absolutely honest.
The last thing I recollect is
how your hair washed over me, drowned
out any words you might’ve uttered.
“I’m sorry I made you feel bad”,
something along these lines, you know.
There must still be a knot of hair
in my cluttered brain somewhere and
even if I could remember
I’m not sure we would like me to.
It is all about recalling,
remembering, recollecting,
about doing things again and
again, about repetition,
reliving what has already
passed, resuscitating the past
like a dead bird mechanically
flapping, flailing its useless wings,
a residue of muscular
activity, automated
flesh response hailing back to the
echoes once hidden within the
throbbing, pulsing meat.
Will you make your rustling wings sing
for me, little bird, orphan of
the night, daughter of white mornings?
Will you play them like strings, like
tin cans stretched from one house to the
next? If you play on the strings of
tin cans, will they serenade as
seashells do calling out to waves
and foam and the bottom of the
ocean? I could write through the night,
writing it in half, so we’d have
a new time of day, one that gives
you space to breathe in-between,
writing it to shreds so you could
pass me handfuls of torn cloth black
and blue and lilac with burning pearls
stitched into them so bright they would
bring tears to your eyes I could wash
my modest hands in. What would it
be like having the universe
crammed into your skull, all light and
weight and endings? What would it be
like? What would it be like? what Would
itbe likE? wHatwOulditBelike?
I couldn’t care less.


brushing the night sky from your shoulders
bruises blossom all over your back
just like you see only the Bright Ones usually do

dipping my finger into your sorrows
I draw from them the constellations
spanning your body and
with their angular shapes
I adorn your furrowed brow


coat the tips of your arrows with your misfortunes
shower your foes with pinpricks that swallow
the light of all that is
all that was and
all that may be

Man hat dich aus Stein gemeißelt
Elle um Elle gehüllt
in Ballen weißer Stoffe
von Kopf bis Fuß,
dass deine Umrisse aufragten
wie Gebirge.
Geschmückt hat man dich,
umkränzt dein Haupt
mit grauen Nattern
dein Haar bändigend.
Dein Schweigen spricht Bände,
Götze des Fortschritts,
Bote der Unendlichkeit,
während die maschinenen Sirenen
das Wort ergreifen,
den Schall herausführen
aus Berg und Tal,
in der Ebene verhaftet.
Wir warten.
Am Fenster,
durch das sich das Licht
nur geschnitten ergießt.
An der Tür,
die dorthin führt,
wo alle die anderen auch
ihren Ausgang haben.
Wir warten.
Und wir warten.
Und wir.